Scruffy

Late winter in the East Village brought out more love birds, than there are tulips blooming on a spring day. There were the scruffy tattooed bearded men rushing home for a cuddle and probably more. While somewhere on Second Avenue, the perfectly manicured theatre major couple picked out cupcakes at the independent coffee house. Then, there are the slew of older men oozing creativity and romance.

As for me, I was on a date too, with the city that is. While I had lunch with a friend at one of the many pop music playing, colorful gay restaurants in Chelsea, I made a major announcement. ” I just want to stay single,” my restaurant buddy looked at me in shock.

“I am not ready for a relationship, besides I live in the city, it’s a singleton’s paradise,” I uttered those words. With one swift bite of my burger, I finished dinner and walked into a utopia of men.

When it comes to the male population, New York really stimulates the senses. Every minute of every day, a new possible husband walks by. While, walking toward my apartment, I had to pee. There was a relief half way between my apartment & Fourteenth Street. The scruffy boy’s gay bar is where Sylvia Plath reading, Talking Heads listening, independent film loving gay boys with plenty of facial hair, a couple tattoos and hip fashion sense hang out.

Since, I had to pee and love beer, it was the perfect layover on the way to my modest apartment. As I ordered the first of my beers, I laid eyes on a scruffy world wonder.

He was also drinking beer and looking quite marvelous under the dim light. It had been a while, since I hit on a guy at the bar. Even though, I said I wanted to stay single, something said go out and mingle.

So I walked over to him and made conversation. Mr. Scruffy bear was visiting from Boston and as the conversation progressed, the unthinkable happened.

Yes, the conversation hit the dreaded wall of silence. It’s that awkward moment, when you realize “Shit this conversation isn’t going anywhere.” I drank my beer at high speeds. However, he decided to go back to his hotel room and I needed to go to the grocery store. Then it hit me; I talked to him and won’t have regrets later.

4 Comments

PhiipPhlop

It may take 1,000 conversations to find Mr. Right (or Mr. Right Now… Blegh, who made up that expression?) but nobody wins in poker by folding at every hand. Sometimes it’s about going all in and being happy when the chips start staking up in front.